


Touch

by PoisonKisses



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Afterglow, F/M, Scars, Touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:39:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8938279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonKisses/pseuds/PoisonKisses
Summary: Bruce learns that her touch is even more dangerous than her kiss.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an indirect sequel to Kiss found here
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/7415380
> 
> It was inspired by a Twitter QOTD about how people feel about BatIvy.
> 
> Now hetero relations are not something I've written in a while, and certainly not from a male PoV, so this is probably a little rough. Be warned.

“Ivy, don’t do this!” Batman roared, struggling to escape the coils of woody vines keeping his arms bound tightly, constricting his body and hobbling his legs. He’d seen her crush a car like an empty beer can with those same vines earlier, so he knew killing him wasn’t her purpose, but desperation was making his adrenaline spike. He couldn’t get free. He’d walked right into this, and now…now Ivy’s plan would happen.

They were on the low roof of the McLaren Shrimpboat, a high-priced seafood restaurant off of Gotham square. Below, a small crowd had gathered, news vans screaming to a stop and hastily setting up. Vicky Vale was already broadcasting. GCPD was trying to form a barricade and news helicopters were competing for air space, their spotlights outlining the beautiful villain as she strutted back and forth, pacing in her anger and frustration. Nearby, one of the pods was ripe and ready to burst at her command. A pink and mottled purple biomass that looked like a prop from a science fiction movie, he knew there were a hundred more like it scattered around Gotham. At her command, it would burst, releasing millions of spores that would kill any human in the vicinity, turning the cadaver into a womb that would produce more pods. It was diabolically effective—if even one of those pods burst, it would trigger a chain reaction that would kill everyone in the city and leave Gotham blanketed in a web of death that would keep human life out for centuries. 

He’d been so confident he’d stop her, he’d underestimated her. Her power. She’d won, and in his arrogance, Gotham would die. The Batman, Bruce Wayne, was only really afraid of one thing: failure. The sinking feeling he’d failed—he’d failed Gotham—gripped him. In his earpiece, a dozen snipers were asking to take the shot, and Jim was screaming at them no. Ivy was the only reason they hadn’t burst already. Killing her would cause them all to burst—a sniper shot would kill every living human in the city. 

She whirled on him, her hair flying. She was amazingly beautiful in her impassioned state, her green eyes blazing, and he was still feeling the effects of the pheromone laden kiss she’d given him an hour before. It took every ounce of his willpower to not melt.

“This is your fault, Batman. I warned you. I told you what would happen if that chemical plant was opened. You forced my hand!” She was raving, her lovely face a mask of fury and…fear? The detective in him was screaming. Why is she afraid?

“Ivy,” he struggled to keep his voice even. “Ivy, think about this. You don’t want this. This isn’t you.”

“What would you know about it? Nothing! You don’t have to hear them scream for mercy. You don’t have to hear them die.” She clutched her hands to the sides of her head, covering her ears. He pulled at the bonds and felt them tighten. The spore pod pulsed, and he cringed. If that burst…

He had to keep her talking. “I don’t understand,” He gave a heave and the vines tightened more. “Help me, Ivy. Make me understand.”

He could see her wavering. “I can’t. There is no way you could. What would you do if your head was full of their screams, their cries for mercy, their death rattles? I have to make it stop, Batman.” Again, she looked terrified under her mask of rage. He understood. She’d never meant it to get this far. She didn’t want to do this.

“So, your solution is to kill every innocent person in the city?” he asked, and she glared at him, beautiful green eyes blazing with fury.

“They’re not innocent. Everyone of them is an accessory to murder.” She growled it, daring him to argue.

“Really? Go to the ledge. Look at that crowd. Tell me if they all deserve to die, choking for air.” She stared at him and a look passed over her face. Uncertainly, she glanced out, and he saw her fixating on the crowd. He dared to hope. “Those spores will kill everyone, Ivy, not just the rich and corrupt. Poor people trying to get by. Children. Infants. Please don’t do this, you’re not a monster, but if those spores burst—” He let the statement hang and she put a slender hand to her mouth, her eyes wide as she took them in.

“Ivy, I understand you want to fight. I understand better than most what it feels like to need to act against injustice, but Ivy…Pamela…this isn’t the way. There is no coming back from this. Please.”

He felt the vines loosen. She spoke, in a small voice, “This isn’t what I want. I don’t…I don’t do this to hurt children, Batman.” She was still staring at the crowd when he stepped beside her. Following her gaze, he could see a little girl in the crowd, no more than three or four, clutching her mother’s hand and staring up with terrified eyes. Ivy wasn’t looking away.

“What have I become?” He didn’t think it was a question she wanted him to answer. She looked up at him, and for all her beauty and power and confidence, she looked lost, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. She closed her eyes, and he saw the pod deflate like a popped basketball, melting into a purplish goo within the space of a few seconds.

“Take me to Arkham.” Her voice was flat, and she held out her hands, wrists together, for cuffs.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said, his modulated voice sounding harsh in his own ears, but he threw his cape over her to block the greasy, polluted, Gotham rain beginning to fall. “Jim, we’re coming down. Tell your men to stand down, she surrendered without a fight, it’s over.”

***

The Batmobile hummed quietly as he navigated the curves leading to Arkham Island. He’d called ahead, and a team was waiting for Poison Ivy at the Intensive Treatment facility. 

He didn’t like this arrangement—she didn’t belong in Arkham—but he had little choice in the matter. There were no facilities to hold someone like her, at least none that he trusted. Lexcorp had offered to hold her, but there was little doubt they intended to study and reproduce her, weaponize her, rather than just incarcerate and treat her. She needed real treatment, and Arkham would just toss her in a dark hole and forget about her.

He glanced over at the woman in question. She sat in the passenger seat, legs pulled up to her chest and arms wrapped around her knees. Her damp, red hair hung in soft waves over her right shoulder and she was staring out the window at the dark trees as they raced past. She hadn’t spoken since he walked her down to the car, her head held high, like a queen, like Marie Antoinette going to the guillotine. People had booed her, someone threw a can of soda that just missed her, but she’d never so much as wavered. He admired her.

She always smelled amazing, and in close quarters the Batmobile smelled faintly of pine and mint. He debated saying something—literally any of his other rogues would have been chattering. 

He broke the silence, awkwardly. “You did the right thing, Ivy.” She turned and regarded him cooly for a moment before replying.

“Harley is out. With him,” she didn’t need to define who ‘him’ was. “Keep track of her, keep her safe, Batman. Please.”

“You know I will.” A smile ghosted across her full lips, and she looked away.

He came to a sudden decision and throttled down, pulling onto the shoulder, braked, and after a moment, turned the Batmobile off. He turned to her. She was watching him curiously, unsure of what he was doing.

“I tried this once, with the Joker.” He saw a look of distaste in her expression before her emotionless mask slipped back. “I went to Arkham, sat across the table from him, and tried to talk to him—tried to understand. I tried to see if there was some compromise we could reach before one of us killed the other. Ivy…” he met her gaze, staring into her eyes—eyes so green they practically glowed in the darkness of the car, with only the stormy night sky and the soft glow of the Batmobile’s interior LEDs to light the two of them up. 

“Talk to me. Tell me how we can keep that from happening. You’re not like him, or many of the others.”

“Because I’m a woman?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“No, I don’t think you’re evil, or irredeemable. I think you’re hurting and lashing out. I can sympathize.”

“And what exactly makes you think I care what you think, Batman?”

“I suppose you don’t, but that is my motivation. Tell me how to help you, Ivy.”

Something passed over her face, something in her intense eyes. “You can’t save me, Batman.” He must’ve given something away in his expression or the set of his jaw, because she suddenly unbuckled and shifted in her seat to face him. She reached out to him, her slender hand was steady, with long, beautifully manicured nails painted a forest green and he suddenly had the surreal vision of Poison Ivy, fearsome, sexy, powerful metahuman eco-terrorist, sitting around painting her nails.

She brushed his cheek with her fingertips, her eyes searching what she could see of his face, and he let her. Perhaps he should have stopped her, in hindsight, but in that moment her touch was electric, sending delicious jolts through his skin wherever her nails grazed it. He was stubbly, and her nails caught at the hairs of his beard. Her eyes were focused on his chin, his lips.

“I’ve often wondered,” she began, her deep voice quiet in the car and competing with the soft patter of raindrops hitting the glass, “What is behind this mask, this armor.” Her other hand drifted over, and she idly ran her fingertips over the raised batsymbol on his chest. “Underneath it all, you’re still a man. What sort of man spends so much time, money, and energy on this war on crime of yours? What sort of trauma did it take to get you there?” She searched the lenses of his mask, unable to see his eyes. “I understand your drive, even if I disagree with it. Who are you, in there, Batman?”

“You know I can’t tell you, Ivy. I wear this mask to protect those I care about.”

“And you think I’d use that knowledge against you? I’ve never target you personally, Batman. Why would I start?”

“I don’t think you would, but the smaller the circle who knows, the safer they are.” She nodded, and then she moved. She was quick, and he immediately cursed himself for having been lulled into complacency. One moment she was sitting in her seat and the next she was straddling him, her long, sinuous legs curled underneath her and resting on his thighs. He was face level to her bosom—much fuller than most of the women he knew—and had to look up to see her looking down at him, her face framed by that nimbus of red curls. The delicious scent of roses engulfed him and he immediately fell a little jolt of pleasure run through his body, his vision getting a little blurry.

“I could change your mind. One kiss, one soft, sexy kiss and you’d be mine. My Batman, my Dark Knight.” She ran her hands to his shoulders, resting them there, her eyes luminous as she spoke. He couldn’t look away from her lips—full and sensual, naturally pouty and so deeply red they looked sinful. God, he wanted to kiss her, but he was Batman.

“That’s not going to happen, Ivy. I trusted you when I didn’t cuff you. Don’t make me regret that.”

“No, I suppose not.” She had leaned forward, her breasts crushing against his armored chest, her eyes flickering between his eyes and his lips. He felt a surge of panic. He wanted this too much.

“What are you doing?” It seemed hilariously inadequate as a reaction, and her eyes were twinkling with amusement as she came closer, those red lips slightly parted. She was close enough he could smell her breath, minty and fresh, and had a strange thought about what his own breath might smell like.

“Why, Batman, I’m going to kiss you.” She said it matter-of-factly, still faintly amused. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her eyes, or her lips, and his brain—normally so quick—felt muddled.

“I don’t—” He didn’t finish, because almost shyly, she brushed those full, red lips against his.

Heaven.

For a moment, he froze, his thinking scrambled, but she was coaxing him, her lips so soft and wet he couldn’t stop himself from kissing back. One of her hands was cupping his cheek, the other still resting on his armored shoulder, and his own hands found her hips, helping guide the slow, maddening grind she was doing. He couldn’t feel it through is armor, and he was glad of it. He had to say no, he had to stop this before it went to far.

Her tongue slipped into his mouth and he lost all rational thought. It was like Ivy herself, teasing and seductive, and it danced with his. She tasted like sweet honey, and he almost moaned with disappointment when she broke the kiss, her eyes searching the lenses of the his mask.

“Make love to me, Batman.” It was simple. She wasn’t offering bait, being manipulative, or acting with secret motivations. Her words made his heart skip—it had been a long time, and he hesitated. As though she were reading his mind, she added, “Don’t overthink it. I want to feel something. I want to feel you inside me.” She shook her head slightly, “It’s not too late for me, I’m not a monster. I want this, and so do you.” She shimmied her hips and reminded him that yes, his body had responded. He groaned, yearning to satisfy its reaction. Then he nodded, so reluctant it was barely a movement at all, and he reached up to her hands, guiding her to the catches on the cowl, showing her with his fingertips how to release them, and then, slowly, she took the mask off.

She wasn’t surprised. “Well, Bruce, you were on my shortlist. I feel a little dumb.”

“You can’t…tell anyone, Ivy, please. Too many depend on me.” She idly ran her slim fingers through his messy hair, combing it.

“Your secret is safe with me. Of my friends, one already knows and the other would go straight to him. I don’t want that.” He swallowed hard, and she began to help him off with the rest of the suit. In the tight confines of the car, it wasn’t easy. The armor pieces weren’t terrible, but the bodystocking was tricky and he needed to sit up to slip it off. She paused when she had him stripped to the waist. With steady, warm hands, she ran her fingertips over his skin, tracing the network of scars that criss crossed his body—a road map of the sacrifices he’d made fighting crime.

“Great Gardenias,” she said softly, and he felt his lips quirk up at the odd expression, “Why do you do this to yourself, Bruce?”

“Someone has to. I have to act, I have to…” He looked up into her eyes, now that she knew, begging her to understand.

“Oh, your parents. They were killed when you were a boy.” He could see she was making the connection.

“I have to make sure no little boy ever has to grow up without his parents because of some…some PUNK…with a gun. You—you understand now?” He was imploring her. He’d never opened up like this, not to Selina who wanted to flirt lightly, leave the masks on, and jump off buildings with him. Not to any of the Robins, who weren’t his peers. Not even to the Justice Leaguers, who needed him to be implacable, unstoppable Batman.

“It makes perfect sense. That’s where the rage comes from—to do what we do, you have to have rage. It’s a living thing, Bruce. A thirsty plant that takes root in your body and soul, digs deep, and is only satisfied with violence and blood. We have to water it, but we can never let it take us completely.”

He gazed up at her. “That’s what I want for you, to help you never let it take you, Ivy.” 

“Still trying to save me?”

“No, but I’m here to help you save yourself.” She seemed to like that answer, because she smiled and then peeled off her own, admittedly skimpy, costume, tossing it aside, and she was naked in his lap. Her breasts, free now, were full and firm, sitting high on her chest with hard, proud nipples and he eagerly pulled her to him, seeking with his mouth, kissing them. She wrapped her arms around his head, pulling him in, and he lost himself for a bit before he realized she’d tugged the bottom part of his underarmor down. He pushed his seat back, and she came with him, her weight soft and warm on his body. He felt like he couldn’t get enough skin on skin, but then her cool, slim fingers wrapped around him, and he groaned. She guided him gently, until he could feel her, until he was probing at her entrance.

His hands found either side of her face, and she locked gazes with him. “I want to see you,” he whispered, and she nodded, and then he was sliding in. Her lips parted, eyes closing to slits, and he groaned again as he was suddenly wrapped in delicious hot and wet. She lowered again, kissing him, her lips full and swollen from the earlier kissing, but no less red, and she molded her curvy body against him as he began to move inside her, stretching her, feeling her grip him tightly. It was wonderful torture, ecstasy, and he felt his whole body seem to come alive.

She was moving with him, matching his rhythm, never looking away, but moaning soft encouragements to him. They entwined fingers, hips meeting with each thrust, and with her looking down on him the long, silky curtain of her hair cut off the world. It was as though it were only the two of them, her face the only thing that mattered. 

When he couldn’t take anymore, he warned her, and she simply nodded. He orgasmed, feeling his body spasm and she came simultaneously, throwing her arms up to pull her hair back and arch her back, making her sweat slick body into a work of art. He could feel her muscles rippling along his shaft, felt her gripping him as she ground into him. For a moment, he was stunned, his whole body reveling in the pleasure, in her pleasure.

She collapsed on him, allowing him to shrivel inside her, and lay with her head on his chest. He was shuddering, trying to make his brain work, and he didn’t know how long he lay there before she moved, sliding up to kiss him, softly.

“That was,” he started.

“Yeah.” She was idly running her fingertips over his bare chest, sliding the nails through his chest hair. He was curious to note her body was silky smooth, no hair growth below her eyebrows. How much about her physiology did he even know? For that matter, how much about HER did he know?

The rain was still pattering on the windows when he realized she was shivering. It was chilly in the car, so he sat up, holding her close, and started the engine in order to get the heater running. The windows were completely fogged over, and he lay back, fighting his grin. “I have to admit, I never fantasized about sex with you like teenagers parking at Make Out Point.”

Her grin was playful. “Oh, so you did fantasize about me?”

“I’m alive.” She laughed at that, a rare for her genuine laugh, and slipped off him to begin pulling on her clothes. His body protested at the sudden lack of warmth, but he dutifully pulled up the bottoms and clasped them, then pulled the underarmor top as well. Giving up on her leafy outfit, Ivy wrapped herself in his discarded cape.

“My God, Ivy. You’re naked in my cape, do you have any idea how sexy that is?” She smirked at him.

“Of course…why do you think I did it?”

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked, wryly. Her grin faded, and she looked at him seriously.

“I don’t know. What are you going to do with me?”

He didn’t think, just started the car and pulled a U Turn, before accelerating.

“Where are we going?” she asked, peering out the foggy window.

“Home.”


	2. Thinking About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy explores Wayne Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A serious lack of BatIvy in the world is leading me to put more out.

Bruce Wayne was softly snoring as she slipped out of the bed she could only describe as...enormous. Seriously, she had garden plots it would have dwarfed.

Pamela shook her head as her slender feet sank into a lush Persian rug that would have fed an animal shelter for a month or more and froze, just luxuriating in the feel of it on her bare toes. Pamela, better known as Poison Ivy, was a bit of a sensualist, and she loved the texture on her skin, even if she disapproved of the display of wealth.

But then, everything about Bruce--about the man behind the Bat--was calculated to support the image of a vacuous billionaire, and as she padded across his room, she realized just how genius the entire affair was. No one really seriously considered he might be the urban legend of Gotham, the one that terrified the rank and file criminals. She’d half suspected, given the amount of money that would be required to BE Batman, that Wayne was involved, but last night had still caught her off guard.

She paused to eye herself in the mirror. Naked, tousled hair, the benefits of her powers couldn’t be denied--she looked like a glamour fetish model ready for her closeup, not a woman who’d just spent a night engaged in a variety of sex acts and then slept in half the day. She smiled at herself, running a slender hand across her tight midriff as she thought about the events of last night. Oh, her plan had fallen through, but she’d honestly never wanted to kill everyone in the city, she just needed them to SEE. To CARE. What had happened later, in the car...well, three times in the car before they made it to the cave...twice there...then several times through the house, she’d lost track, until they’d fallen into bed together...none of that had been planned.

At any rate, he’d stirred slightly when she disentangled herself from his possessive spooning, but she was hungry, and judging by the soft patter of rain on the windows of Bruce’s cavernous room there would be no photosynthesis today, so she resolved to find her way to this maze-like home’s kitchen and see if she could find some fresh fruit.

There was just the small matter of her lack of clothing.

Her outfit was still on the floorboard of the Batmobile, as far as she could remember. This was a puzzle--normally she wasn’t remotely shy about strutting around nude--her body was flawless and even if it weren’t, she really didn’t possess the modesty gene--but Bruce had a live in butler, Alfred Pennyworth, and there was no reason to give the poor man a heart attack should she bump into him, not to mention several adopted wards. 

She wandered into the man’s walk in closet, a room larger than her first college dorm room, where rows up on rows of slacks and dress shirts, ties and dress shoes, were carefully organized in neatly ordered, crisply ironed rows. It was uncanny, but it explained a lot. She suppressed an eyeroll, but selected a white dress shirt and shrugged into it, buttoning it up enough to leave a hint of her generous cleavage. 

It was huge on her everywhere but across the bust and hips, the bottom edges hitting her mid thighs and the sleeves needing a good rolling up, but after a moment, she felt modest enough to walk around the house. She glanced at herself again in the stand up, gilded mirror.

Great.

She’d gone from every teenage boy’s favorite mastubatory fantasy--beautiful naked redhead--to every business man’s--beautiful redhead wearing nothing but his dress shirt. She DID roll her eyes this time, muttering, “Might as well accept it, Pam.”

She gave Bruce a light peck on the lips, causing him to shift, murmur, and then drop into a deep slumber. The man rode the edge of exhaustion constantly, she’d been aware of that even when he was the mysterious Batman and she was super villain Poison Ivy. A light dose of a sedative to help him rest from her kiss seemed to be in order. 

Feeling like her work here was done, she padded silently out, picked a direction (and seriously, she felt like Sarah from Labyrinth in this place...if she’d had any makeup with her she’d have considered making arrows in lipstick) and marched resolutely that way.

Again, the sensualist in her loved this place--so much to see, to smell, to feel. As she walked, she trailed slender fingertips over mahogany banisters predating the civil war and over ancient suits of armor that must’ve predated the English civil war, her feet sank into lush antique carpets or trod ancient hardwood waxed to a high sheen. A beautiful fern was excited to see her, gushing at her, and she stopped to listen to it. It trembled with joy as it wrapped leaves around her fingers, clutching at her wrist when it was time to move on.

It was well-cared for, lovingly tended, with moist soil and excellent light. Her opinion of Bruce and his butler went up.

In fact, the house had an impressive amount of greenery and no cut flowers in vases, two facts that endeared them to her. Outside, she could hear the gardens drinking deep of the slow falling rain, and here, north and west of the city proper and upwind of the prevailing air currents, the rain was relatively clean--not the greasy, filthy sludge that fell on the city itself. 

She was reminded she needed a shower, but her stomach was growling. “Food first, then a shower.” She said it outloud. The house was eerily quiet. All the trophies and paintings, sculpture and priceless objets d’art, didn’t help her shake the feeling the place was empty.

Stopping, she put a finger to her full lips. “Kitchen will be downstairs. The ground floor, surely.” Having decided, it was only a few more moments before she found the huge stairway down and descended.

The main hall of the manor was more familiar to her, she’d been here before. She paused to say good morning to several excited flowers when a clipped, proper, male voice said, “Ah, good morning, Dr. Isley. Welcome to Wayne Manor. Can I get you anything?”

She smiled at Alfred, a man she’d met several times before...under very different circumstances.

“Good morning, Mr. Pennyworth. I’m actually looking for the kitchen. I’m a bit hungry.” She supposed other women might have felt self-conscious. What was the term? Walk of shame? The idea of feeling shame for a bit of honest sex seemed odd to her--the change had freed her from feeling compelled to live according to society’s niceties. 

“Of course, Madame. If you’d care to follow me, I’d be happy to whip you up something.” He gestured for her to proceed him, and Ivy obliged, walking like a queen in her purloined dress shirt and bare feet.

“It’s not necessary to go to any trouble, Mr. Pennyworth. A bit of fresh fruit if you have it is sufficient.”

“Madame, you are welcome to call me Alfred.” His voice was warm. He approves of this, she thought to herself. That’s unexpected.

“Only if you promise to call me Ivy.”

“Very well, Miss Ivy.” She laughed.

A cup of English Breakfast, a banana, and a slice of cantaloupe were perfect. She’d even managed to get Alfred to talk to her, advising him how to counter the limestone rich soil of northern Gotham and encourage his roses to grow.

“They’re very happy out there, Mr. Pennyworth. You take excellent care of them, and they’re healthy enough to chatter at me through the walls. The pH could use a bit of adjusting, however.”

He’d even taken to making notes in a small notebook produced from his pocket when she heard male voices. Familiar ones.

She was taking a sip when the three came in. They’d been talking, laughing, ribbing each other…

“Face it, little D, you totally flubbed that last parry.” The oldest boy said. Man. She knew who it was, of course, knew his bearing and his build. She’d known him for years, first as Robin, and now as Nightwing.

“I never ‘flub’ anything, Grayson, and ‘flub’ is a ridiculous word,” the youngest was saying. He was at that age where his voice was cracking, the flow of his speech telling her that though his fluency was without reproach, English was a second language to him. Current Robin, the arrogant little one, she decided.

The middle one was quiet. Observing. She marked him instantly as the smartest of the three. He was familiar enough she knew he must’ve been Robin at some point, but she had no idea which one or when. He noticed her first, eyes going wide. The laughter died on the oldest’s lips.

“Ivy!” he yelled, and all three assumed fighting stances. She arched a perfect brow and set her tea cup down.

“Really? That’s your reaction?”

The oldest was eyeing her now, taking in how she was dressed and her body language.

“Master Dick, hold a moment, sir.” Alfred stood back up, almost self conscious that he’d been caught sitting and chatting. He assumed his ramrod straight posture.

“Has she hurt you, Alfred? Where’s Bruce?” As he spoke, he was angling around the small table. The youngest one was doing the same, taking the opposite direction. The middle one had tensed but was waiting and watching, frowning.

“Whatever you’ve done to Bruce Wayne, you’ll get worse, whore,” the little one growled.

“Master Damian!” Alfred exclaimed in horror but it was too late, Ivy’s temper snapped, the potted plant in the corner became her base, and in the cramped confines of the kitchen with nowhere to move or dodge, she snared all three instantly, lashing them to the other chairs of the table in woody vines.. There were shouts, struggling, anger, but in the end, it was a foregone conclusion. In seconds, they were helpless.

“Now perhaps we can discuss this like adults. Except for you, this is a discussion not suitable for children.” Loops of vines wrapped around his mouth, gagging him, then covered his ears. He made muffled noises, his nostrils flared, but the boy was effectively cut out of the conversation.

“He’s probably insisting he’s not a child,” the middle commented, wryly. Ivy liked this one, and she smirked at him.

“Well, he should strive not to behave like one.”

“Let us go, Ivy,” the oldest said, anger in his voice, and yet Ivy caught his eye wandering up and down her lack of dress.

“If I do, do you promise to refrain from attacking me?”

“Yes, I must insist we keep the violence to a minimum Master Dick, Master Tim.”

The middle one spoke up. “We’ll play nice. Pretty obvious you’re not an intruder here...”

***

It had been a good talk, followed by a long stroll with Alfred through the Wayne gardens in the sprinkling rain. The plants there were healthy, happy, they chattered to her, excited to have someone who could hear their song, and she sang softly back, letting them know they weren’t alone.

Damian, the little one, still glared daggers at her, but Tim, the middle one, and Dick, the oldest one, seemed to be more at ease. They were wary, but they were also men, young men barely out of their teens, and they couldn’t help but appreciate the way she looked. 

She was used to that sort of power.

By the time she crawled back into bed with Bruce, the sedative in her earlier kiss was wearing off, and he slowly woke up, drowsy but rested and sated.

“Had a busy morning?”

“Rather busy, actually. I never expected you to have a full household. I thought Bruce Wayne was a lonely bachelor.”

“Well,” he stretched and smiled--such a bizarre image coming from Batman!--as she popped a grape in his mouth, “It could use a woman’s touch.”

The thought must have popped out, because when he realized what he said, his smile faded, eyes wide as he stared at her.

She kissed him, letting her own wicked smirk stretch wide.

“I’ll think about it.”


	3. Suds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivy and Bruce have a shower, and a little talk.

She was stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful.

It was morning, and the sun streaming through the east windows of Bruce Wayne’s room lit her up with a golden back light. The effect was hard to deny. She was asleep, her back to him, her thick mass of red curls pulled over her shoulder to her front, the satin sheets having slipped down to reveal just an expanse of her lithely muscled, slender back, the curve of her flaring hips, and just a hint of the cleavage of her buttocks. Her skin was sleek and perfect, completely without any sort of blemish--no stretch marks, not even a mole or freckle. Just under the surface of her pristine skin he could just make out a vine like pattern of green, a pattern that almost looked like a tattoo. It was fascinating.

He couldn’t help himself. Bruce reached out and slowly traced a finger down her side, over her hip, almost like a child who, upon seeing something beautiful--a work of art--couldn’t stop himself from needing to touch. Her skin was as soft as it looked, infinitely touchable, and flashes of the last few days, the sound of her breathless voice moaning in his ear, the scent of her arousal--a floral smell, like roses--the searing taste of her full, lush lips, ran through his head, and he could feel his body reacting, growing hard. For four nights and three days they’d barely found reason to leave his room, this bed, and each other, and he couldn’t imagine ever tiring of her.

Poison Ivy was the sexiest thing he’d ever known.

She was a light sleeper, and as soon as he touched her she murmured and stretched. He snatched his hand back, feeling vaguely guilty, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. She rolled onto her back, intense green eyes open now and meeting his, and those sinful lips of hers curled up sensuously.

“Good morning.”

He smiled down at her. As she’d rolled, that sheet had pulled back, and her breasts were bared. He found himself trying not to glance down at them. Full and firm, they were as perfect as the rest of her, and he was a little obsessed.

“Good morning,” he answered, smiling down at her. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Of course you did. You were awake, and part of you was insistent.” She pulled the sheet up and looked down into the shadows, where he was so erect it was verging on painful, and she smirked, confident and arrogant about her own effect on him. He chuckled.

“Well, I suppose there’s some truth to that.” She put her slender hand to his middle, running it over the sculpted muscles there. It was maddening. “I think there’s a lot of truth to that.”

He chuckled again, feeling his pulse picking up. “Well, since you’re awake…”  
“Oh no. I think we both need a shower.” She slipped out of bed, sleek and naked, and padded toward the bathroom, letting her impossibly long hair stream behind her. “I think we both know we have to return to the real world.”

He’d been trying not to think about that--trying not to think about this ending. 

“Are you coming?” He didn’t hesitate. As she was working the nozzles on his shower, he glanced at his phone. Mostly messages from Dick. Barbara. His secretary and other Wayne Enterprises related emails. He shut it down and shuffled after her, walking awkwardly.

His bathroom was huge, a suitable one for one of the wealthiest men in the world. As he entered, she commented over her shoulder, “I swear to the Goddess it’s like a Turkish bath in here. Do you really need this much space? Should I be wearing a harem girl outfit?”

He grinned, coming up behind her and sliding his arms around her middle and kissing her shoulder. “Well, if you would I wouldn’t complain. Where can we get one at 9 am on a Saturday?”

“My belly dance costume would work, so no need to go shopping.”

He had to process that information as she leaned in, feeling the spray with her hand and adjusting the temperature. It caused her bottom to brush against his erection and he let out a helpless groan. She stayed like that, feeling every inch pressed against her, and even wiggled her bottom a bit to torture him.

“Wait,” he groaned again as she stepped away with her patented maddening smirk, the one that said, ‘I have you, you can’t resist me, and you love every minute of it.’ “You...belly dance?”

“Of course.” She said it simply, stepping into the hot steam and spray. “I’m a protestor. I picked it up in college before…” she trailed off. Bruce knew her history, knew what had been done to her. When Poison Ivy had first come to Gotham, he’d done the sort of research only Batman was capable of and willing to do, finding everything about her he could. He knew Woodrue, knew what the crazy man had put her through. Bruce knew Ivy was as much victim as villain, even if she’d never admit to it. In a way, he’d always felt a bit of kinship with her. His own trauma had turned him into a driven and obsessed crimefighter--in her own way, Ivy was just as driven, just as obsessed with the idea of justice.

“At any rate,” she called over her shoulder as she was wetting her hair, “yes, I dance. You’d be surprised at all the details of my life you have no idea about.”

Bruce didn’t doubt it, and he stepped into the shower behind her, already enamored with the way the pulsing water was turning her sleek skin shiny and wet. “I’d like to learn more, Pamela.” He heard himself saying, quietly. The confession surprised him. She turned with a smile, one perfect brow rising in surprise.

“Well, maybe that’s not off the table.”

She stepped to the side to let the spray hit him, and he took a moment to wet himself down, dunking his hair. AS he wiped hair from his eyes, she was pouring liquid onto a purple loofah from an unmarked, vintage looking bottle--like something from the Victorian era, and he froze.

That was Selina’s special body wash. Selina’s loofah.

Something in his face must have tipped her off, because she laughed. “Don’t worry, Bruce. I know who this belongs to. Who do you think made the soap?”

“I--” he began, remembering similar showers with Selina, an inexplicable feeling of guilt stinging his conscience. They’d never made any claims of exclusivity, it shouldn’t have been a problem, but--

“Relax.” She began to work the material, the soap fluffing out into thick, fragrant suds. They smelled like Jasmine. “Selina knows. I told her the first evening.” He blinked in surprise. “We disagree, we fight, we squabble. We are very different women, but we agree on one thing--we never fight about men, Bruce. You aren’t worth it.”

He laughed at that, easily picturing her saying it. “And she’s...not angry?”

“Oh no. If I thought she’d be upset at all, I wouldn’t have done anything with you. The two of you don’t have a stable relationship, and she knows I’m a no-strings type of partner. It’s not like Selina and I haven’t slept together. We have, many times.”

“You...you and Selina?” he managed as she turned, stretching one lithe arm out to soap down with those purplish suds.

“Yes, again, many times. Sometimes with Harley too. Bruce, I’m polyamorous and I’m not saddled with your prudish, Judeo-Christian, sexual morality.” He digested that and focused on the loofah as she soaped her body down, running it between her beautiful bosom, over her sleek midriff. Ivy didn’t have body hair, and the soapy water ran down in rivulets, tracing her muscles, leaving her sleek and shiny, wet.

“Selina never mentioned that.” He managed, and she smirked at him.

“Do you imagine Selina tells you everything? My Goddess, Bruce, you’re such a man. No, her world doesn’t revolve around you. Mine either.” At that point, his ability to think became seriously impaired because, still soapy herself, Ivy moved the loofah to him, soaping his chest slowly. The body wash tingled in a pleasant way, and smelled amazing. Her gaze flickered down to his body as she soaped him, taking her time. Her free hand slowly traced over his muscle, his scars. 

“You don’t have to go, Ivy.” He said it, almost a whisper, his voice harsh in his ears, thicker with emotion than he liked.

“No, I don’t.” She glanced up at him through her thick, sooty lashes, her eyes green and intense. “I could stay here. We could have an actual relationship. What would that mean, Bruce? Dating? Marriage? Would I hyphenate or just keep my last name? What would Superman think? How would Diana take it? Would I renounce my criminal ways, join the League with you? Or turn myself in, spend my days at Arkham waiting for you to sneak in for a...what...a booty call?”

He looked down. Her face wasn’t unkind, she wasn’t being cruel on purpose. He searched her eyes. “No, you’re right. I can’t ask you to be something you’re not. It doesn’t change the fact I...want this. I want you.”

“We both know we can’t have the things we want, Bruce. Neither of us. But we can live in the now…”

He caught her hand, raising it to his lips. “I’ll live in the now, then. But you know how I feel.”

“I do.” She agreed quietly, and then her hand found him, still erect, and his eyes fluttered close as her fingers curled slowly around his girth. She began to stroke him, her hand gliding on his soapy slick length, and he almost went weak-kneed, bracing himself with hands on the shower walls.

It took every big of his willpower to hold back as she stroked, but then, with a wicked gleam in her eyes, she sank to one knee, licked her lips, and he was lost.

She was gone when he woke.

He rolled to his side and heaved a sigh. The note was simple.

_I’ll see you soon, Mr. Wayne._  
Pam  
Ps Isley-Wayne sounds bad, I think I’d just keep my name 

There was a kiss mark, and the stationery (his, from the writing desk in his room) smelled faintly of her perfume.

It was dark, and Gotham was in the distance, lighting up the night sky. From here, he could see the signal. 

Bruce Wayne heaved another sigh, but she was right. Gotham needed him.

Batman headed down to the cave.


End file.
